Mood:
Meh
Listening to: Coheed and Cambria - Neverender
Wow, my subscription to DA runs out in a few days. It's been a long year, and in the course of the year, I completely lost my taste for this site. I spent a lot of time pouring my heart into poetry in order to gain the recognition of my peers here. It seemed a worth endeavor, find people who would respect me for my writing and maybe make some friends.
Turns out, that isn't what DeviantArt is about. This site isn't about artistic community, making friends, or sharing. It's about who you know and how popular you are. The most talented artists, who simply post their art and comment on other's work are shunned. But no-talent hacks who slap an anime picture of a girl with bare breasts onto the thumbnail for their writing gain thousands upon thousands of hits.
Obviously DA isn't designed for people like myself who don't create visual art. So instead of keeping true to their artwork, these people whore it out, stapled to an anime girl, and they're heralded as amazing talents. What bullshit. It's trite, stupid, and well... a fitting metaphor for art culture.
Watching from the sidelines while the administration went on it's anti-furry pogrom of the last year was also enlightening. It turns out that a site that flagrantly flaunts itself as "deviant" is as thick with censorship and prejudice as everyone else. Apparently, only being gay is the hip deviation. Anything else is still disgusting and wrong. Meh. Human nature.
In all, I doubt I'll ever post anything here again. I'm removing my own DA page from my favorites list once I post this. So to the few friends I did make here, thank you for supporting my writing and my emotional struggles.
To Lerou, when you read this: Finally, you wisened up and dumped Geoff. Good girl. I hope you broke his heart on the way out.
When the hand reads 7:30 and your night begins to sink in the short but faster fall. Anxious but calm retort to a mirror that frames your face, baring the finest swell. When the day begins to break, like the tears that run across your cheeks, stand straight and imagine you then. In the things and the way they could have been. And the thoughts, they race across your chin, here in the Neverend.
In graver mistakes, dear mom and day, I write you in this letter that states scratched through; when the new day's begun, forget your son when he's out on his own
Point your gun in another direction now that you've cried yourself to sleep.
Point your gun in another direction now that you've cried yourself to sleep, here, in there, after the fire.
Still Nothing
Shattered
